


Nothing Rhymes with Texas

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a newly-minted cop and there’s this one particular hooker on his beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Rhymes with Texas

Jensen takes the same route every night when he’s finally off-duty, just past midnight, drives slowly down the street where this one kid hangs out regularly. There’s a lot of hookers working this neighborhood, and Jensen knows his squad car is scaring away customers, doesn’t feel too bad about it. He’s just keeping an eye out for one particular figure in the shadows: tall and lean, shaggy hair, long-fingered hands that over-run Jensen’s thoughts when he’s not careful.

And Jensen’s being careful about everything right now, twenty-two and only five weeks left of his probationary period until he’s a full-fledged member of the San Antone force. He’s already had his share of busts, even a couple of serious cases with drugs and assault, and his supervisor has already said within his hearing that Jensen’s the best rookie to come along in years.

So Jensen’s by-the-book every goddamn minute of the day, except here, in the ugly, weary first hour off the clock. Every night for months he's found himself coasting silently through the worst part of town, looking to catch a glimpse of someone leaning into a car window or on his knees in the filth, head between some other guy’s legs, and Jensen doesn’t even know why.

 _You’re a police officer, for Christ’s sake, and he's not even legal_ , he thinks to himself, for at least the two-thousandth time. _Either haul the kid in and get him some help or go find yourself a boyfriend._

But there’s a number of problems with that scenario. First of all, there’s no way he can be out and gay as a cop, at least not on this force. But, even if he could, he doesn’t want some other guy. He’d gone out of town over the weekend a couple times, taken the opportunity to pick up various tall, dark-haired strangers at nameless bars and tried to fuck this obsession out of his system.

And every time he came home, he found himself gravitating back to these streets, more desperate for a glimpse of the forbidden than ever.

So he’s scanning each alleyway with an eagle-eye, as usual, but still he almost misses it. A scuffle, struggle, two men, the flash of a fist flying and someone falling. It’s not an unusual occurrence for this rough area, but even though he’s off-duty, he pulls over, locks the car and unsnaps the holster of his gun, just in case.

Jensen slows as he reaches the corner of the storefront, hears the soft thud of flesh on flesh. An agonized groan. The smell of blood in the muggy air. He draws his gun, and forces himself to take several calming breaths like they taught him at the academy, then peers around the corner.

One guy down on the ground, taking a beating. No other witnesses, no weapons in view.

Long hair and a streak of blood veil the victim's face but Jensen’s been stalking the kid for months, long enough to recognize him in the worst of circumstances.

Just as Jensen reaches for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder to call for backup, the assailant rears back and delivers the kid a brutal kick in the side. He curls tighter in on himself, whimpering.

Wrath surges through Jensen at the sound, the same protective, possessive impulse he always feels toward this kid, but magnified tenfold. Unable to wait any longer, Jensen raises his gun shoulder high and steps around the corner, "San Antonio police. Freeze."

The perp swings around in mid-kick, raising his hands to Jensen as if to protest his innocence, then spins on his heel and darts into the shadows.

"Fuck," Jensen snarls, about to take off after the runner, but then a soft moan of breath draws his attention and he whirls around.

He sees the hooker— _his_ hooker— up on hands and knees, dragging himself toward the dark recesses of the alley, making for the shadows behind a heavily-loaded, stinking dumpster.

"Wait! Hold up there," he says, hurrying to the injured boy’s side and crouching down on one knee. Jensen’s glance darts to the kid’s face and sucks in a breath in dismay at the swelling eyes and busted lip. At the same time, he’s never had the opportunity to get this close, and even in the murky light that makes its way into the alley from the street, he finds himself eagerly cataloguing points he’d never noticed before—a dimple in the chin, a scar high on the shoulder, a scattering of delicate moles dotting the kid’s face and throat, the way his hand curls protectively around his ribs. Jensen can’t help but reach out to touch the bare skin of his arm, feels the muscle trembling under his hand, or maybe it's his own hand trembling.

The kid shakes Jensen off. "Let me...go, man," he gasps. "....didn't do anything." He pushes up clumsily, then slumps back down.

"Relax. I'm not charging you with anything," Jensen assures him. He’s worried, the kid’s breath is shallow, hitching, maybe a broken rib or two. Jensen can’t tell if there are other injuries, too. He takes the boy’s arm again to help him up.

The injured youth shrugs him off again. "No, don't touch me. Don't. I didn't do anything. You can't prove--"

Jensen sits back on his heels, his hands held up and open, unthreatening. "You’re hurt. I'm just trying to help you, for Christ's sake."

The kid leans his head back against the wall, muttering, "Yeah, right. Fine young cop wants to help the fucked up whore." He snorts. "Right into a fucking jail cell."

Jensen doesn’t respond. There’s more undercurrent to this encounter than the kid could possibly guess, enough to make a familiar, sick guilt curl in Jensen’s gut, so he simply thumbs open a channel and calls dispatch for an ambulance.

"No," the kid says, hissing through clenched teeth as he struggles again to get to his feet. "No ambulance." Jensen sees his eyes glaze with panic. "No hospitals." He gets his hands awkwardly behind him on the wall for leverage. "No doctors." One arm buckles and he crashes back down, groaning. "Please."

"Hey, hey, easy there." Jensen resettles him, hands gentle and as impersonal as a monk, easing the weight of the kid’s body off the bleeding arm. Jensen spies the shadow of old bruises ringing his long, elegant neck, along the collarbone exposed by a thin wifebeater undershirt, can tell that he’s lost weight since Jensen had first spotted him almost a year ago now. The gauntness makes him look younger, more fragile; it’s probably good for business, but it’s not healthy. "You are going to the hospital. No arguments."

The boy's hair swings over his face as he ducks his head. "No way. You’re not my mama."

"Listen, kid, you're the victim and a witness in this crime."

"I’m not a kid and I didn't see anything." He looks up again and narrows his eyes mulishly. Jensen can tell he’s trying to look tough, but if anything it makes him look even younger, makes Jensen want to wrap him up in his arms, tuck his head under Jensen’s chin. God, why him? What is it about him that makes Jensen lose every bit of caution and morality and sense?

“So that's how you’re going to be?” Up until now, Jensen has sworn up and down he wouldn’t ever make contact or interfere in the hooker’s life, wouldn't let himself know anything, _do_ anything, as many times as he’s been tempted. Knew once he made it personal, he would be digging himself a deep, deep grave. But now that the kid’s here— injured, helpless, thrown right into Jensen’s lap... and what an unfortunate phrase _that_ is— Jensen casts about for ways to get him off the street, if only until he can heal. "Okay...you're in curfew violation. I can hold you until your parents come in to pick you up."

The kid shrugs at that. "Lots of luck."

"What do you mean?"

There’s no answer, but the kid nervously rubs at the edge of the gash above his eye, starting it bleeding again.

Jensen shoves the picking fingers away. "Stop that and answer my question."

The kid turns his head, staring out toward the street, his sharp-featured face a careful blank. "I’m an adult. Almost nineteen, so don’t sweat the curfew. Besides, no parents to call, you know?”

Jensen reaches out for his arm again, a solace. "You're living on the streets." He’d guessed, but it was still hard to hear it confirmed.

The kid— eighteen or not, Jensen needed the mental distance of the word— goes completely still for a long moment, looking down at the hand touching his arm.

Then, as if by magic, the sullen youth vanishes. He lifts hot, hard eyes to Jensen’s worried stare, and Jensen recognizes the sultry smile as one he’s caught the kid giving potential johns who were scoping him out from the driver’s seat of their cars. He leans forward a little, just enough to get up in Jensen’s space.

"Nah, I got a room, Officer." It comes out soft, sweet. His unbloodied hand toys with a button on Jensen’s uniform. "A nice one. It’s got a big bed." He glides a lazy gaze up and down Jensen’s body and moistens his lips. "Want me to show it to you?"

"Shit--" Jensen rears back, simultaneously aroused and appalled, suddenly reminded of the fact that he’s sitting in a dark alley in the middle of the night being propositioned by the male prostitute he’s been stalking. It’s both a personal wet-dream and a professional nightmare.

But whatever might have happened next is lost in a flurry of activity as the EMTs arrive and shove him back out of the way. The kid’s desperate glance meets Jensen’s once, then shifts down, closing everyone and everything off.

Jensen takes a step forward, intending to reassure the boy, but a hand catches his forearm and he’s immediately locked into giving details on the assailant to Collins and Morgan, a couple of officers on the beat this shift.

As he spins them a half-assed excuse for why he was driving through here this time of night, the slam of ambulance doors brings his attention back to the victim. He excuses himself from the pair and dashes out of the alley across the street to intercept the med tech climbing into the passenger side.

"You're taking him to Methodist?"

The medic shakes his head grimacing. "Stubborn asshole refused. We got him bandaged up, for what it's worth, and on his feet."

"Where is he?" Jensen scans the street.

The medic shrugs. "Took off while we were packing up.”

Jensen fixes the man with a laser glare. "You let him go?"

"Not my job to keep him here. But he went that way, I think." And the guy points down the block.

Jensen turns away, raking his hand through his hair. He’s _got_ to let this go. He gets into his car and turns the ignition, all the while begging himself to head straight toward home.

"It'll be a miracle if he gets four blocks,” he mutters out loud and makes the u-turn south.

***

_This is so fucked up._

Jensen’s standing at his sink washing dishes, channeling his immense freak out into a furious bout of cleaning.

The kid is lying, still unconscious, on his couch.

Jensen had found him face-down in the doorway of an abandoned building. He’d knelt down and hauled him out of there, careful of the bandaged ribs, and into the back of the squad car. Why the hell he’d not taken him directly to the station is a mystery, or maybe not. But however it happened, Jensen had brought the boy to his own apartment, thanking god that he lived on the first floor as he carry-dragged him inside. It hadn’t been as tough as he’d feared— the kid was a giant, but too thin, like a brittle fallen tree limb in winter— and Jensen was able to get him situated on the sofa, but had yet to figure out what to do, or even how to explain, once he woke up.

They would probably fire him for this if they found out.

He finishes in the kitchen and heads to the bedroom, stripping out of his uniform and throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, staying barefoot-- a less intimidating outfit for dealing with a scared teenager waking up in a strange man’s apartment-- and strides back out into the living room to check on his… guest.

One glance shows him that the couch is empty.

Before he can react, he’s struck from behind, breath knocked out of him as he’s tackled, the blow pile-driving him straight into the carpet. He struggles, bucks up and lashes out, but his attacker has a knee in his back and a grip on his neck and, lightning-fast, the cuffs off of the utility belt he’d left in the hall are around his wrists and secured to the wrought-iron support pole for the island separating the living room from the kitchen.

The kid leaps up, away from him, panting, as Jensen shouts, “What the _fuck_?” and yanks at the cuffs, starting to panic as he senses how helpless he is trapped down here on the floor.

He stills as he sees the kid standing poised in the middle of the living room staring into the middle distance, like an antelope moments before it bounds away, hands clenching in and out of tight fists. 

“You didn’t need to do this,” Jensen said in a low, soothing voice. “I’m just trying to help you.” 

The kid’s attention snaps back to him and he glares. "Well, it looks a lot more like kidnapping to me." 

The edge of truth to the accusation cuts Jensen, and he grits out, "I guess I should have just left you sprawled on the street for the garbage collectors to pick up." 

The kid sneers, rolling his shoulders back. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Jensen opens his mouth, then shuts it with a teeth-clicking snap, the guy’s soft words sinking in. He feels stupid, off-kilter and vulnerable, having this conversation while trussed up like a Christmas turkey. "Listen, I'm sorry I said that. It was way out of line.”

"Yeah, well,” he shrugs, then murmurs to himself, “that wouldn’t be an all-time first either." 

Jensen's heart twists. “Why don’t you get the keys and unlock these, and we can talk.”

That earns him a withering look, but Jensen can see the aggression and panic slowly seeping out of the kid’s body language as he realizes he has the upper-hand. “You can talk from there, man. If it’s not kidnapping, why don’t you tell me what this _is_?”

Jensen shakes his head, not remotely sure how to answer that. "What does it look like?" he temporizes.

The kid arches a sardonic brow. "You look like a cop. Cops either arrest my kind, or take us home for the night. Either way people like me get fucked."

Then he turns and head into the kitchen. Jensen can hear him rummaging around in the cabinets and refrigerator and tries to figure out what in the hell he’s doing. He calls out, "You're in my home. It's not an arrest, I’m not--"

The voice from the kitchen cuts him off, calling out. "So, Door Number Two, I was gonna get fucked then? What were you thinking, Officer? Hand job? Oral? Anal? I don't do rimming or kinky... not without a hefty bonus. I may work the street corner, but I don't imaging you can afford something like that, on a cop's salary and all.”

He comes around the corner with a brown grocery bag and sets it on the table, then starts going through the papers and drawers on the console in the hall. It’s almost a relief when he ignores Jensen’s gun sitting right there within arm’s reach on his belt—what the _fuck_ was Jensen thinking, taking that off with a stranger in the house?—and picks up Jensen’s wallet instead, shoving it into his back pocket.

“Of course,” he continues, “You could have been planning to threaten me with jail time, and then I'd be about willing to do anything to stay out of there. I have to admit it sure would hurt to work all beat to hell like I am, but I bet I would’ve given you your money’s worth.” He crouched down next to Jensen, looked him straight in the eye. “You could’ve had me bare ass up, wide open, could’ve bent me right over that couch and reamed me until I screamed. “

“No.” Jensen grinds his teeth, willing the swell of his cock to go down in his pants before the kid catches on to how badly he’s getting to Jensen. “It’s not like that, I swear.” But he’s too close. Jensen can smell him, feel the body heat radiating off of him, see the hurt masked as cynicism in his expressive eyes.

“Hmm,” the kid says, “I guess you could’ve fucked me while I was knocked out. Just opened up my legs and shoved right in without me even trying to stop you.” Jensen flinches in disgust and the kid reads it in his face. He shrugs nonchalantly, “But perhaps you like your catch better when it’s jerking on the line.”

Jensen growls, stupidly offended on the kid’s behalf, angry at him for talking about, thinking about either himself or Jensen that way. “Screw you. Uncuff me and just get out.”

The kid ignores him and runs his palm down Jensen’s chest, brushing over a nipple and Jensen shivers and curls his legs up defensively as the hand skims down to his groin. "You’ve been holding out on me, big guy." His long, strong fingers flex against the hard flesh under them and he gets this sweet little smile on his face. "And I do mean big guy. Wow." The jaded mask of the professional slips for a second as he makes the little joke, but he immediately pulls it back on, smirking. “I’d probably have to charge you extra to fuck me with that.”

Face heating, hunger and fury warring within him, Jensen twists his hips away, hunching his shoulders and jerking at his restraints. "Don't do that."

"Come on, man. I know you want it, so why play games? I’m giving it up for free… and I _never_ give it up for free. Who’s gonna know?" The kid’s hand has wormed its way underneath his tee and splays against Jensen’s flank, thumb circling, small, almost ticklish caresses skittering across his skin.

"Me," Jensen snaps, "I'll know. And I said no." But all he wants is to shout is yes, yes. It’s like a million jerk off fantasies come to life. This kid, this whore, this strange, secret mania of his, here in his apartment with his beautiful, filthy mouth and his bruised innocent’s face, asking for it, offering his body up like a present. At the same time, Jensen clearly sees those are fantasies, and before him is a real person, hurting and despairing and acting out a role, and all Jensen wants to do is _fix_ him, not use him just like all those other men use him. He can’t be just another faceless man.

He can feel the cuffs biting into the skin of his wrists as he wrenches them, arms quivering with the need to get away. The hand is gone and instead he can feel the kid’s stare boring into his back. A minute goes by, then three, then another, all in silence. Finally, the kid slides closer, presses up against Jensen where he’s nearly curled in a ball around the pole he’s tethered to. “It’s okay,” he whispers into Jensen’s ear, a warm puff of breath Jensen can feel all the way down to his fingers and toes. “I’ll take care of you.”

The kid’s hands tighten around his hips and pull, gently and then more insistently, forcing Jensen out of his huddle, drawing him across the carpet until he’s stretched out flat, arms extended over his head. For a second he considers fighting, lashing out; he probably could do some damage, get a good shot to the kid’s gut or groin. But then he remembers those bruised or broken ribs, the image of the motherfucker in the alley kicking the kid like a dog flashes through his mind, and he simply… lets go.

He closes his eyes, turns his head to the side, feels his fly unbuttoned, zipper unzipped. The kid is straddling his thighs now, bending over to nose his shirt up until it’s bunched under his armpits, licking and nuzzling at the tender skin around Jensen’s navel, dragging a groan of pleasure out of him. The kisses are light, teasing, and go on for so long—tongue traveling slow up his belly, firm and quick over his nipples, one and then the other, so that they both peak tight and throbbing at the tips, back down to jab delicately in and out of his bellybutton-- until Jensen can’t help but thrust up, frantic for more.

So the kid presses gigantic hands to Jensen's hips, holds him down, curls downward and puts his lips against the underwear still covering Jensen’s straining cock and mouths against it, tongue and breath combining in a ecstasy of wet and hot. It feels like jumping into a mountain stream in the middle of summer: instant, almost painful, relief that skyrockets back to an aching need even stronger than before. He instinctively moves his hands-- desperate to bury his fingers in the kid’s long, thick hair— but feels his wrists jerk, stymied, and the links of the cuffs jangle harsh against the metal of the pole.

The kid chuckles and slides both hands into Jensen's jeans and shorts, around the back until he’s cupping Jensen’s bare ass, squeezing and kneading and then effortlessly lifting Jensen up off the floor and slipping the clothes down to his thighs, cool air drifting over naked skin. His cock springs free, the already wet tip smacking against his stomach. Jensen feels a flush start at his cheekbones and spread down, down his neck. He squeezes his eyes tighter and gasps as a finger trails along the length of his dick, light as a feather.

The kid shifts off of him, moving down to tug at the legs of his jeans until he’s pulled everything all the way off. He stands looming over Jensen and their gazes lock together. Jensen’s almost completely naked and bound on the floor while this boy is fully clothed and free to do whatever he wants and the thought of it sends tension and urgency and desire pulsing all through him, blood racing.

A little crease forms between the kid’s brows. “I hadn’t planned on actually enjoying this.” His voice rasps, it's higher and breathier than before. Jensen wants to, wants _so badly_ to believe the kid is feeling something, too.

He crouches down again at Jensen’s side, and, unexpectedly, his lips are pressed to Jensen’s, a full-on kiss, light and warm. He holds it for a long second, then his tongue swipes at the seam of Jensen’s lips, coaxing, asking for entrance rather than forcing it, and Jensen opens his mouth gratefully. Their tongues touch and stroke, winding him up higher and higher. He strains up to push closer, and the kid brings a hand around the back of Jensen’s neck to support it, the other under his chin and tilting his face to just the right angle to dive in deeper. Jensen tastes the sweet-spicy echo of cinnamon gum, and chases it, sucking on the boy’s tongue and feels the guttural moan in his mouth.

He pulls back slightly and murmurs against Jensen’s lips, “I wish I had three more sets of cuffs. I’d take you to the bed and open you up, lay you out spread-eagled for me.” It's honey-smooth and practiced, but still makes Jensen shiver, quick-silver, as the kid’s teeth, rough and scraping, bite at his mouth, his jaw, his neck. And yet, what Jensen really wants is that breathiness back.

“Do it,” Jensen growls out. “Fuck me.”

He feels the kid jerk in surprise. “What? I... You mean... Jesus Christ.” He sits back on his heels, rocks almost like he's been struck, eyes wide. It takes a few eternal seconds for the offer to sink in, then he's digging Jensen’s own wallet out of his pocket and throwing it on the floor, reaches into his pants to pull from underneath a small, thick packet of lube and a condom.

Jensen watches avidly, shifting and digging his heels into the carpet and pulling at his restraints and, god, he needs some friction on his cock _right now_ , because the sight of the kid unfastening his jeans but not bothering to take them off, just shoving them down and pulling out his full, long cock, then carefully rolling the condom on is making him insane.

The kid clambers between Jensen legs, all the practiced grace of a prostitute seemingly forgotten. Jensen parts his thighs wide to make room for him, and he gasps as one slick finger strokes across his entrance and then eases into him, gently, cautiously. He throws his head back as it presses in, deeper and deeper until he feels knuckles brushing the underside of his balls.

"You are so fucking beautiful," the kid whispers hoarsely. He slips a second finger inside, stroking and parting him, and leans down to kiss Jensen's mouth again. Jensen can't reach for him, can't touch him, can't hold him. So he tries to pour everything he’s feeling into that kiss, to let the kid know that he means this, treasures this, that as much as the kid can give, that’s what Jensen will take. He strokes his tongue urgently against the kid’s, draws his lower lip into his mouth to gently pull at it, to lave over the wound there, arches up and sucks another bruise into the kid's throat until he's writhing on top of him.

When the kid finally pulls back, he’s panting and wild-eyed. "Can I?" he asks.

“Please,” Jensen begs.

Then it’s like a rush downhill as he plants his hands on the back of Jensen’s thighs, hauling them up and out and plunging into him in one quick motion. Jensen shouts and thrashes against the burn, but he's babbling, “yeah, yeah, god” at the feel of the kid's dick splitting him open.

There's a pause, then a shift, as he pulls out a bit, coats his cock with more lube and tentatively pushes back in, once, twice. Jensen’s out of his mind, yanking at the cuffs, rubbing his wrists raw, scrabbling to get his heels higher on the kid’s back, as he leans in closer, shifts his hips a little, and suddenly they’re lined up in a whole new way. The kid’s harsh breaths get deeper and shakier, and Jensen’s cock is about to explode against his belly. He’s got to reach down and wrap his fingers around it, but, oh god, he _can’t_ , every muscle strains against the bonds, metal cutting into skin, and then the kid’s hand is there, jacking him swiftly in time with their joint thrusts.

He looks up, and the kid’s eyes are fixed on his face, his gaze so intense Jensen has to close his eyes against it. But that prompts the kid to ask fiercely, "What's wrong?"

Jensen pries his eyes open. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Everything’s exactly right."

The thrusts come harder after that, as if the kid has no control over what his body is doing. Jensen isn't complaining, though. In fact, he’s involuntarily muttering a constant stream of encouragement, the words pouring out of him. And it’s embarrassing to think how many times the kid has heard shit like this from strangers, but then his boy is right there with him. "God, yes, you feel so fucking good. No one ever-- Why would-- You. Only you. Fuck. Fuck, like that, so tight and… perfect."

He wants it to last forever. He’s fully prepared to stay like this forever, breathing in their mixed endearments and obscenities, feeling the kid's huge hand move more and more frantically on his cock, feeling his body flex over and within him.

But then a grunt rips itself from deep in Jensen's chest as the kid shoves himself as far inside him as he can go, and he cries out again, wordlessly, shaking apart as he comes in long, hot streaks all over both of them.

He draws in air desperately, opening his eyes, determined to watch the kid finish. He’s sweaty, mouth open and gasping, and Jensen looks up at him and, doesn’t even think, just says, “I love you.” And it’s worth it to see his face change, crease into a grimace between pain and ecstasy, cock pumping into Jensen as shudders rack his body and he collapses onto Jensen’s chest, letting Jensen’s legs loose to fall to either side of his hips.

They lay still for long seconds, Jensen’s arms and shoulders screaming with the pain of being nearly ripped from their sockets in the heat of the moment. Jensen wouldn't care, doesn't, except for how he can feel wetness on his neck where the boy has his face pressed, his broad, boney shoulders held stiff against tiny sobs Jensen would never notice if they weren't joined together. Jensen thinks he would give everything he owned right now to be able to reach down to wrap his arms around him, stroke his hair, make him whole.

Finally, he whispers, "Let me go."

At that, the kid shivers, shifts, heaves himself up and back to carefully pull out of Jensen, removing the condom, eyes red-rimmed and slanted aside, the color mantling high on his cheeks not all from the exertions of fucking.

It’s dead quiet in the room as he turns away, awkwardly straightening his clothes and walking over to the table where he finds the key. He brings it back over to Jensen, but he doesn’t unlock the cuffs, simply crouches down, reaching out to gingerly brush the laceration on Jensen's right wrist. Then he places the key just barely within Jensen’s fingertips’ reach and turns away, leaving him naked and fucked out on the floor. He picks up the grocery bag and then leans down to grab the wallet, too. He gives Jensen a miserable look, but goes ahead and tucks it back into his jeans.

“What’s your name?” Jensen pleads as the kid throws open the door. “Just… tell me what your name is.”

His fingers tighten on the bag in his arms, and Jensen thinks he’s not going to answer. But then, softly, head bowed, he replies, “It’s Jared, Jensen.” Then the door closes and he’s gone.


End file.
